No more rolling around in the filth, no no no,
There will be no more rolling in the filth, spewing gum on the walls in rage and frustration!
For we have our style, yes we have our ways, like a proportional disaster, we always do what we want.
There will be no more rolling around in the filth, this time they will not win,
The distant memories of slavery I have grown so fond of, I have grown so aware of, reverberating off my cage door, the lock and the…
Far away cry of the people of my time, modest measures, hours, only days, only years,
This time it’s different, for in my way, the sand that blows, across the healing wasteland, separating me from what I want
I’m on the wings of this afternoon, somewhere between 3 and 5 I believe,
I’m riding the day like a pony, all the way to the summit.
I brought my hiking shoes and my bag of pride; I never go flying without it,
I brought the queen of spades in my pocket and a feather in my hat for luck,
And boy I think I will need it, when the winds of regret start blowing south again.
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